


Vision

by roselightsaber



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Blindness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8959852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/pseuds/roselightsaber
Summary: Baze is Chirrut's eyes when his own senses fail him.





	

“Baze. Tell me.”

Words so familiar that they sounded like a soothing, familiar little song to Baze each time Chirrut said it, no matter the circumstance. It was usually something good, usually accompanied by a soft tug at his sleeve or a hand on his shoulder. He’d feel that touch, feel the unstoppable curiosity in his tone, and would describe things in any way he could think of so Chirrut would understand. Some things were easy –- objects with weight and texture he could touch, and living things whose energy Chirrut could feel. More ethereal things were harder: sunsets, stars, light twinkling on Kyber. So naturally, Chirrut almost exclusively wanted to hear about the latter.

Baze was no poet, born into utter destitution and swiftly abandoned, alone but for the monks in his formative years, a little child who barely spoke scrubbing floors at the Temple until he was big enough to fight. At least at the Temple he was around others, could absorb language even if he said so little himself. But Chirrut forced him, even when they were just kids, pulling descriptions from him, and, both prone to frustration at not understanding, they developed their own sort of vocabulary. Baze knew how Chirrut saw -– he could feel with the Force, yes, but much of his understanding was filtered through Baze’s own eyes and his own clumsy words. And he got a lot of practice, whether he wanted to or not.

So now when they sneak out together in the evenings, still slipping stealthily to the rooftop as if they were kids evading a lesson though they’re full-fledged Guardians now, in their twenties, Baze knows what to expect. Things in Jedha don’t change that often, but Chirrut still wants to hear about every nuance, perhaps more for the calming quality of Baze’s voice murmured close to his ear, the other’s arms wrapped around him securely. Even some of Baze’s best efforts just don’t make sense to him –- color never will, but there’s nothing he likes better than forcing the other to whip up some foolish, flowery metaphor about warmth and the smell of fruit and the sound of chimes, and waiting for him to fall apart laughing at his own hopelessness and try to distract him with kisses.

Baze must be thoroughly out of words, because he’s nuzzling at Chirrut’s neck with the utter determination of a man who doesn’t know any more ways to describe the clouds. And it’s _almost_  working, _almost_  keeping Chirrut from more questions, more demands. But not quite. He leans away, laughing when Baze just pulls him right back to his chest before he can escape again. “You’re not getting away with all this silence today,” he objects, leaning back and dropping his head onto Baze’s shoulder, legs kicking over the edge of the temple wall next to Baze’s. No sense at all can sum up this feeling, being tangled up in the very _essence_  of the one he loves.

“I’ve given you plenty of words today. You’re just being…” He looks him over as if this is the most challenging description of the day. “ _Difficult_.”

“Me? Never!” Both hands sneak up to Baze’s face, thumbs delicately tracing the line of the smile he knew was there without having to see. He can always hear it in his voice, in different shades: bright and warm and joyful, or trying to suppress it when Baze is trying to chide him for being such a brat, even when he knows Baze is tired or hurting but he still looks at him in that unnameable _way_  he can feel that raises goosebumps across his skin. Faces are a little bit of an enigma, too, but whatever the descriptor is that he feels when he touches Baze like this, something he doesn’t have a word for, he’s damn sure the other is every bit as beautiful as the energy he gives off.

“Always,” he corrects, partially muffled by Chirrut’s searching fingers. He snags one of those slender hands in his own and kisses his palm.

Chirrut shifts, straddles his lap and faces Baze, leans in so their foreheads are touching as if to better hear the full contents of his thoughts. He’s close to the edge but infinitely sure he won’t tumble backwards–the Force won’t let him, and Baze’s hands at his waist aren’t bad insurance, either. “What do you see  when you close your eyes?”

Baze thinks it over, shutting his eyes out of more instinct than thought that it might help him answer. “Just…nothing. Probably what you see, except I can see a little light sometimes.’

“How can you tell there’s light?” There are those wandering hands on his face again, this time tracing his jaw before moving down his neck and beyond, searching for the curve of collar bone he’s already memorized.

“Because I can _see_.”

“No need to get snippy about it, I’m only asking.” It feels like he can see, anyway, when they’re close like this. Touch, and his connection to the Force, have always been his primary modes of interaction with the world anyway, and neither of those senses is ever sharper than when he’s close to Baze. “Sometimes I wish I could see you,” he confesses, hands squeezing strong shoulders as he settles against him, face nestled into his neck.

“You do see me, in your own way.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Chirrut can feel him smile, in his skin and in the ripple of playful joy around him. “Who knows? You might be disappointed.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Nevertheless…” He bundles him close again as if afraid for a moment that this is all too good to never fade away. “We see each other clearly.”

“I wouldn’t change it. You’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“You are absolutely not.”

Baze just chuckles and falls quiet, and Chirrut lets him this time.


End file.
